ROMANCE
by SometimesLola
Summary: The VegasVideo Tape comes back to haunt Nathan and Niki. POV's.


**Pairing: **Nathan/Nikki&Jessica. **[Guest** Hedi,Micah, Peter, Clair,Peter,Angela,Syler and Others  
**Warnings: **Erotica, Slash and Angst. Adultery, Violence, Murder and other Adult themes.  
**Spoilers: **Season One until 2x03 'Kindred'  
**Rating:** NC-17 or R.  
**Beta: **Me, Jan & Begemot Geroi  
**Summery: **The Vegas-Video Tape comes back to haunt Nathan and Niki.

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Well, this is my attempt of writing a Erotic Romance for Heroes, which may be slightly angst-y and long for some readers. But since more than aware that Naki-groupies are in dire need of more Nathan/Niki Fan-fiction, I took it upon myself to write an Epic. So do enjoy and Review. For the ADULT version, I will post a link for it in the related chapy. **

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**[NATHAN PETRELLI- Manhattan. **

A life of meaning or a life of happiness? It's a question Nathan Pettrelli asks himself so often that it has become a mantra, one that has long outlived it's philosophy.

So, instead, he sits in the dark, staring into his crystal glass of expensive whiskey like another one of America's failures who fell on his ass when he reached for the goddamned sun. You see, there was a time not too long ago were the congressman had it all: the complete American dream in full surround-sound Technicolor.

You used to see his smiling face on every TV, always telling lies that were subtle and smooth; justifying his inadequate morals and stuffing his mouth with glorified promises. Or you'd watch him modelling his pair of perfectly behaved boys and civilized, picturesque wife.

Like a puppet on a string, he'd play his dead father's role - obediently chasing his aristocratic mother's empty ambitions; never fortunate enough to escape the phantom of success that was demanded by the family name. His charismatic younger brother, in the meanwhile, jumped from buildings - certain that he could fly.

Peter did fly just as Nathan did and it was that moment the world pulled the carpet from under his feet and handed him rose tinted glasses. So like a madman he chased his brother in a hopeless attempt to stop Peter from getting himself killed in some reckless quest to fulfil his hero complex. Nonetheless, Nathan soon caught himself thinking that he could do the impossible too: beat unbeatable odds, dream the unachievable dream and become a Hero.

Until everything went to hell.

Now he doesn't want his place in that pretty, little hand basket of heroes anymore, in fact, he knowingly snorts at others like him - the freaks, the heroes or whatever it is they are calling themselves these days - as they blindly run by, all still trying to get somewhere, be someone, grab onto that unreachable star to pull them up, above their mundane lives. Little do they know, the star burns and leaves you nursing your wounds with alcohol and salt.

Ironic really, the American dream; that's what it's all about. It's dangling a carrot before a hungry horse, something that people like Linderman take full advantage of. He had offered Nathan meaning and promised to serve him presidency on a silver platter. All in exchange for an anchor tied around Peter's ankle. Fortunately that proved too high a price to pay and Nathan chose, instead, to tie it to his own ankle. An anchor with his dead brother's name carved across it-replacing New York's.

A life of meaning or a life of happiness? Choose whichever or even both, it doesn't matter since it's still one big con that'll leave you sitting in the gutter with nothing but an empty bottle of vodka. Anthony Petrelli once told Nathan that depression has a tang like a fresh orange, remorse is bitter and brings images of the alleyways of Hell's Kitchen but grief tastes sweet when washed down with alcohol.

His father proved himself right yet again.

Wallowing in his sorrows and listening to the patter of rain hitting the window behind him, Nathan traces small circles onto the smooth surface of his glass with his thumb, as if listening to the best of Luciano Pavarotti. Fixed in his large, luxurious leather chair, he scrutinises the bronze liquid, expecting to find some sort of condolence at the bottom of the glass.

Sufficiently satisfied with the lingering shadows of his office and comforting warmth the alcohol seems to offer, he almost jumps out off his skin when his mobile springs into life, vibrating atop piles of unread papers.

Sheepishly he answers with a displeased grunt. "Leave me alone .Ma!"

The squeak in the other end cannot be further from being Angela Petrelli. "Nathan. It's Nikki--" a pause. "--we need to talk."

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TBC 


End file.
